The Call
by The.Mad.Shadow
Summary: While on a book tour, Castle receives a phone call that could change his life.
1. Chapter 1

**Thought I'd post this little tidbit and see what people thought. I came up with it when I was brainstorming for my NaNoWriMo fic, which is ****_also_**** about Castle. Tell me what you'd think and if you'd like more (or a longer piece).** **Oh, and I have no say in anything remotely related to official Castle decisions.**

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It's three in the morning when she calls him. At least, it's three in the morning by her. Because he's in California, on this stupid book tour Paula coerced him into doing. That's why it's only midnight when he hears two of the most terrifying, nerve-wracking, thrilling words Kate has ever said to him: _I'm late._

He shoves his fist into his mouth and bites down – hard – to stop himself from crying out with joy, or saying something stupid. So, while his mind whirls around with images of him holding his baby boy, teaching his son how to play baseball, giving him his first Oxford dictionary, he manages to hear the rest of what she says.

"…could be nothing, since we've been careful, but I thought it important to let you know. It's probably nothing, just stress…" She is rationalizing; he can hear it in her voice, in the way each word has just a hint of a sigh behind it. Just stress? They'd been through a solid week and a half of paperwork before he had been practically frog-marched onto a 747 and shipped across the country. A week and a half so boring that Ryan had threatened to shoot Captain Gates so that there'd be a homicide to investigate.

"Have you taken a test yet?" He surprises himself with how calm his voice sounds. Richard Castle, actor extraordinaire. His mother would be so proud.

"No. I hadn't even noticed until now. Thought I'd do a couple of late-night errands, stock up on a few things. You know, while I have the time. Reached for some... _lady things _and realized that I hadn't needed them in a while." She doesn't say it, but he knows: she misses him, the same way he misses her. They've slept side by side for ten months now, and he feels the absence of her warm presence tonight. And the amazing boredom-breaking sex.

"I'll be on the next flight out. I just have to –"

"Don't be silly, Castle! You're on tour. It's a part of your job." He opens his mouth to object. "Your _real_ job!" She emphasizes the real, and, even though it stings to hear, deep down he knows that she's right. But job be damned, if his girlfriend (partner, roommate, whatever they called each other) thinks something important enough to call about at any hour, his instincts tell him to go.

"I can reschedule. Sometime. Any time. As long as it's not a time when you may or may not be with childe." He hears the sharp intake of her breath at his words.

"Can you not say it like that? It makes me feel so…"

"Motherly, happy, excited?"

"How about nervous, faint, and queasy?" She suggests. For the first time, he hears the edge in her voice. It's hidden very well, but even over the phone, she's as familiar to him as one of his own manuscripts. He checks his watch _12:15_. If he hangs up right now and hauls ass, he might just be able to catch a flight to the city. Might.

"Listen Kate, babe. I love you very, very much. See you soon!" As she utters cries of indignity he taps 'end call' and looks around his room. It's a mess: clothes scattered everywhere, after he'd been too lazy and too forlorn to pick them up, suitcase lying asunder beneath a pile of collared shirts. He makes a mental note to text Paula and hurries to get his wallet and keys. She would kill him, but he could deal with that later. Right now it's his job to get home as quickly as he can.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, it was much appreciated! I also want to thank everyone who 'followed' this story, because it means a lot to me. I sincerely apologize for being so tardy with this chapter, but I just finished finals, and sociology was kicking my butt (I got a 98 on the last test, though!). Of course, I don't own Castle, so Rick and Kate are not mine. This story is, though. Enjoy!**

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Luck is being kind to Rick tonight.

No sooner does he step out of his hotel, then a cab pulls up curbside, whisking him away to the airport at top speed. He makes the plane to Dallas, the first leg on his two stop journey, with ten minutes to spare, and the flight attendant takes one look at him and tosses him a small bottle of scotch to calm his nerves. It doesn't work, but, as they say, it's the thought that counts. Even the flight is relatively painless, with little turbulence and not a screaming child in hearing range. He even manages to get a couple hours of sleep; the scotch playing on his already tired mind until he finally gives in.

Which is why he is fifteen minutes into his short layover at Dallas Fort Worth and rapidly dialing Kate's number, again, praying that his luck holds. He needs to hear her voice, needs to reassure her that he will be there soon. Only, she's not picking up, and he starts to feel a bubble of worry rise up from his stomach. It's very possible that she's fallen asleep. He hopes she has, instead of spending the night pacing the floor or staring at a murder board in an attempt to block out the rest of the world. He knows the latter two situations are far more likely, and he accepts that it's a part of her. He just doesn't have to like it.

_Hi, you've reached Detective Kate Beckett. I'm not available to answer my cell at the moment, but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message, I will return your call as soon as possible._

Her business-like voicemail greeting taunts him, much in the way that she used to. He can hear the melody behind it, the emphasis that she puts on her title, and the brusque manner in which she states her words. Unlike how they sound together on 'their' home machine. She still technically has a place of her own, somewhere she can retreat to when she needs space, but he feels that it's only a matter of time until he whittles her down and convinces her to officially move in. She's already left her indelible mark on almost every inch of the apartment – her pillows on his couch, her clothes in his closet – so it would not be that much of a stretch.

"Hi, Kate. It's me. I'm in Dallas, waiting on a plane to LaGuardia. I'll get in about eleven thirty and should be home no later than twelve fifteen. Don't panic, okay? Just please, don't panic. I'm on my way, and we'll deal with this together." He stops, about to hang up, then remembers something, "I love you, Kate. I really, really love you." Now he ends the call.

His watch face reads _4:25_, giving him absolutely no comfort at all in its resolution to move at the slowest possible speed known to mankind. It's been four hours since she called him, and he still isn't there to give her comfort. What kind of a person does that make him? He had promised her that he would never leave her alone again, yet, when she needs him most, he just happens to be on the other side of the country. Selling his stupid books. Damn Paula. Damn her and this whole stupid idea that she had.

Hands. He needs something to do with his hands. He's been a fiddler for as long as he can remember, always wanting to touch things (even Kate's chair, though she had expressly warned him not to). He has a collection of stress toys in his desk for when he just needs to concentrate on something else. But now, he has nothing to play with, has to simply sit there and focus on one of the most stressful moments of his life. Why can't they start boarding the plane already?

He checks his watch again: _4:32_. He can do this. He just needs to hang on for another twenty-eight minutes. And a three and a half hour flight. And a forty-five minute cab ride. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. He can't do this. She's there and he's here and they're not together, and he's in full panic mode now. What if Kate is pregnant? Or what if she isn't? Does he want her to be? He has no answers to any of the questions tumbling around his mind, only a constant stream of 'shit.' Because he has _no clue_ what his answers are. He and Kate have been together for over a year, and he has only thought about these things in passing. Shit.

_4:38_. He doesn't even understand why he needs to bother with these questions. They've been safe, _very_ safe, and she's probably right in saying that this is due to stress. She has a stressful job, even when it's just paperwork. Of course, it's stress! It's a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything. He takes a breath to steady himself, finding it much easier to do so now that his thoughts have slowed down sufficiently.

Except that this has never happened before.

He fights to keep control, even as he feels it slipping away from his grasp. His family has always been there to talk him down from a situation – she's family, and the boys and Lanie are, too. It's discomfiting to find that he can't turn to them in his crisis. He needs to be home.

"American Airlines' flight 704 to LaGuardia Airport now boarding." A serene, feminine voice states over the terminal intercom. It stops him cold. He's going to be there, and everything will be okay. It will all be okay. He hands his boarding pass to the agent and flashes his driver's license for identification. The woman only glances at him for a moment in recognition, then waves him onwards. He finds his seat and checks his phone.

The clock reads _6:50 CST_, but his attention is instantly dragged away from the time by the fact that he has a new text. It's from Kate.

_I love you, too._

**As always, if you have the time to leave a review, that would be lovely. Shoutout to Liv Wilder and myboygeorge for stories that got me through NaNo and finals. They are wonderful, wonderful authors.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Big news, everyone: I got the rights to Castle as a present. Except that I, of course, didn't. However, I did get bunches of emails telling me about the wonderful people who reviewed and favorited and followed this story. Hats off to all of you! I hope that everyone enjoys/is enjoying New Year's (I still have a few hours to go) and that somewhere in the midst of your revelry you read this.** **Enjoy!**

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If the flight from California was heavenly, then the one to New York is anything but. The take-off from Dallas has them sitting on the runway for forty minutes because there is traffic on the tarmac. It only gets worse from there. He sleeps badly, his stress finally getting to him, his dreams peppered with demonic baby-like forms and visions of Kate telling him to get out of her life. At one point, he even gets a visit from Meredith telling him that she is going to move into his loft permanently so that Kate can never steal him from her again. He wakes up yelling, and the flight attendants threaten to restrain him if he did not calm down.

Rick isn't even surprised that the captain's announcement about preparation for final descent is answered with the resounding boom of thunder. The skies have been dark with clouds for at least an hour, and, last he checked on his onboard television, the weathermen are saying that a massive Noreaster is moving into the area. The closer they get to the ground, the more the plane is pitched by the wind, until the captain announces that he is going to have to do a flyover and hope for less buffeting on the second pass. He closes his eyes, leans back in his seat, and inhales deeply, hoping that he can stave off vomiting. He's not sure how much longer he can hold out and prays that they land soon – he hates puking in public.

Just as he's sure that whatever he has in his stomach is going to make an appearance, he feels the familiar rush and pop in his ears, and the wheels touch down. They're in New York, out of the sky, and his guts are still in tact. They slowly taxi to their arrival gate, accompanied by the soundtrack of falling raindrops, their staccato music alerting all on board to the fact that a major storm is brewing in the city. The clapping of those around him, in recognition of the efforts that the crew has undertaken to get them down securely, quickly drowns it out.

"Welcome to New York, the local time is 12:30 PM Eastern Standard Time, with the temperature at 41 degrees Fahrenheit, five degrees Celsius. We will be pulling up to our gate shortly, and baggage claim will be announced when air traffic control tells us. Thank you for choosing American Airlines for your flight this morning, and may you have a pleasant day and a happy holiday season." The captain's voice sounds off, letting him know that he is just minutes away from deplaning. He tunes the rest of the announcements out as he looks out at the sky. It's obscured by fog, but he knows that somewhere off in the distance lies the Manhattan skyline.

Slowly, they pull up to the gate, and he waits as the walkway extends to the forward doors in a painstakingly slow motion.

"Passengers, please be advised that the forward door is now open and you are free to disembark and turn on any and all electronic–" He unbuckles his seatbelt and sprints down the aisle, pushing aside the flight attendants as they wish him a good day.

He barely notices the walkway, and before he knows it, he's being assaulted by the cacophony of a major airport stuck in a state of disarray. Snippets of conversations reach his ears, ranging from complaints about flight delays to comments about the upcoming Knicks game against the Nets. They barely register in his mind as he searches for the nearest exit. Unfortunately, it's at the end of the terminal.

He picks up his pace, wending his way through the masses, dodging carry-on luggage and small children left and right, until he manages to make his way outside. Without a jacket. It's 41 degrees and pouring rain and he's in a collared shirt made for the mild winter weather of Los Angeles. Shit. At least there's an overhang that mostly shields his from the rain as he waits for a taxi. The line isn't too long, so he has hope that he'll make it out of the cold soon enough. But now he's standing again. He's standing and he's not moving forward and he's not making his way to Kate, and she's alone and… he's panicking. He needs to stop panicking. She will be fine. F-I-N-E. Fine.

He turns on his phone, hoping that a game of Angry Birds will be sufficient distraction for his worried mind. The line inches forward, and now he's only three taxis away from the Loft. The lock screen flashes to life, and he quickly enters his passcode (it's Alexis' birthday). Two taxis. Instead of bringing up his game, his finger is drawn to the phone app. He should call Kate, let her know that he's landed and will be home slightly later than he had predicted. But there's a notification that he missed a call from her when he was airborne. There's a voicemail, too, and it taunts him with its little red circle and exclamation mark, just sitting there, tempting.

He decides to listen to the message first, just so he doesn't put his foot in his mouth _again_ and talk about something already discussed. He knows it's important; otherwise she would have waited until he got to the Loft. And if Kate Beckett thinks something important enough to leave a message, then he had damn well better listen to it. He taps the voicemail indicator and waits for the automated voice to demand he input his password.

A horn honks.

"Hey, buddy, you wanna get a move on?" He looks up, to find that there is no one in front of him. "Yeah, you. You from Flawridah or som'thin'?" The driver pops the backseat door open and he scrambles inside.

"Where ya headed? Brooklyn? Midtown?"

"SoHo. Corner of Broome and Crosby." He slams the door shut and the driver pulls away from the curb.

_Please enter your password, then press pound._

In the silence of the cab, the noise from his phone is almost deafening. He startles, nearly dropping the object before he catches himself. He really needs to get ahold of himself before he gets home: they don't need two sets of nerves in this situation, and Kate is bound to be more wired than the time she drank six cups of coffee just to stare at a murderboard. His fingers enter the numbers quickly, and then the phone is once again pressed tightly to his ear.

_Rick… it's me._

He can hear the disappointment in her voice, hear her heart breaking, and feels his breaking along with it.

_I'm… I'm not pregnant. It's not even a possibility any more. Please, just get here soon._

He hears a half-sob, and then the message ends with a click. How he wishes that he could be right there, holding her in his arms and promising that it will all be okay. He has no idea what he can do or say to make this any better for either of them, but he will figure it out. They will figure this out together.

Maybe he should have called his mother, asked her to stay with Kate until he could be there himself. He feels like he's failed her, failed the woman he loves, the woman he hopes to one day marry and have more children with. He left her alone. And now she's crying by herself. She has already done it too many times in her life; she should not have to do it again. He's stupid. He's an idiot. He needs to be there, lending his shoulder to her, feeling her move in against him. He needs to make sure that she knows they stand together.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a bodega, a little hole in the wall store that is so very common in the city.

"Stop!" The word in out before he can control himself. "Stop." He says it more calmly, and the taxi halts.

"You wanna get out here, buddy?" The driver asks, his face plainly stating that he thinks Rick crazy.

"I'll be quick. Just need to grab something."

"Meter's running." The man yells at him as he exits the cab. The freezer is to his right as he enters the store. He stares into its depths. What flavor would Kate like? Alexis was a chocolate and vanilla swirl person, but Kate always went for the weird ones. Like Chunky Monkey or Banana Split. Then he spots it: perfect for this situation, all the way in the far left corner, buried under containers of Cherry Garcia and AmeriCone Dream. He grabs two pints, just in case; throws a ten at the clerk; then hurries back to the cab.

Without another word, he's off again; the ice cream bouncing next to him at the car hits a pothole. He's almost home.

**A few notes: Kate will actually make an appearance in the next chapter, I got sidetracked from writing this because an Alexis-centric story popped into my head and decided that it needed to be brainstormed, and if anyone thinks that they know what flavor the ice cream is, PM me. I'll post the answer (along with anyone who guesses correctly) in the notes for the next chapter.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hi all! I'm baaaack! I took the semester off from writing to focus on my schoolwork (I got a 3.71, so I might make Dean's list!), only to come back and realize that my hard drive was corrupted and I needed to do a wipe and partition. But, finally, here is the next chapter! And, no, I still don't own Castle.**

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Kate feels… nothing. She is numb. Absolutely and completely numb. At least, that's what she's trying to tell herself. The chicken noodle soup that she had heated up hours ago sits untouched on the coffee table, forgotten amidst yet another staring contest with the cable box clock. So far, she's lost twice. Maybe third time's the charm? It's better than obsessively cleaning their – _his _– entire kitchen from top to bottom. Again.

She wants to believe that she can just make this all go away, that she can close her eyes and pretend as though this never happened. But it did happen. It _is_ happening. Right now. She has never been particularly good at sorting out her own emotions, always seeks to compartmentalize and hide rather than face things head on. Castle likes to say that it's because she isn't afraid of anyone or anything, except herself. Maybe he's right. But she isn't running now, just stalling, waiting for him to walk in through the door so that she can fall into his arms, let him piece her back together. He's ever so good at that.

A noise breaks the silence of the apartment, and she blinks (damn, there goes her only hope at winning). The noise stops, and she drops her head into her knees. A night of sleeplessness clearly has her hearing things. She should curl up into a ball and sleep. But she doesn't want to. She wants _him_, she wants him _here_, now. She had never thought of herself as the type of person who relies on others, always making her own way through her own ingenuity. But right now, all she wants is for Rick to walk through those doors, sit down on his sofa, and hold her.

And then he's there, in the apartment. He's not next to her, yet, but she can smell him – he's wearing that cologne she spotted one day at Bath & Body Works, mixed in with a slight hint of stale airplane smell – and it's enough. She practically sprints to the door, but it's blocked by his big frame. Something thumps as it drops to the floor, but she barely notices it. Because he's there.

His body envelops her and all she feels is the comforting heat radiating off of him. It's like she's sitting in her favorite spot by the fireplace in the Hamptons, looking out over the ocean. Only, it's better, because he's all over her and she feels _safe_. She no longer has to do this alone. She tries to pull back for a moment, wants to get a look at his face, to properly say hello, but he holds her even tighter to his chest. So she stays put, standing in the entrance to their – _HIS_ – loft, ear pressed against his chest to listen to his heartbeat as together they ignore the world.

She feels him shaking, and a moment later, a sob breaks forth. She's not sure which one of them it came from. The tears that she refused to shed suddenly reappear, and then she can't stop herself. She can feel the water streaming down her face, not caring that Rick's shirt is soaking most of it up. But she makes not a sound, listening as Rick gives voice to everything in his heart, and hers, letting him being the mouthpiece, the way he is for most things they do. He lowers his head, and she can feel his lips on her hair. Normally, her heels draw them about even, but standing in her socks, the differential is apparent. It makes her feel smaller, more vulnerable.

"I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." She hears him whisper. She says nothing, figuring that the best thing is to let him talk it out. It's how they operate: he is the open one, the one who lets himself feel and talk and ask for explanations; she is the closed one, guarding her heart with insurmountably high walls, preferring silence and denial rather than words. But then he repeats himself. Twice. Three times. He says it like it's a mantra, like he's down on his knees begging for her to forgive him for some heinous action.

"Rick, stop." She doesn't mean for her words to sound so harsh, and winces inwardly when he stops abruptly. She takes advantage of his momentary surprise to push herself away and look into his eyes. They're red, rimmed by purpling bags that reveal just how much effort he put in to getting here. He opens his mouth again, but she cuts him off.

"There's nothing to forgive, Rick. Please," she lowers her voice, almost to a whisper, "just stop." He eyes her for another second before he lets out a long sigh, and visibly deflates. "Can we go sit in the living room? I'm sure that you're tired and I don't want to talk about this right here." She turns to go to the couch, but hears none of his lumbering footsteps. He's not moving, just staring at here in a sort of stunned silence. Finally, he reaches down to pick up the bag that he must have dropped.

"Let me go get spoons…" he mumbles. She takes that as his acquiescence, and finds herself a comfortable spot, nestled among two of those ridiculously large throw pillows he bought last month. She had told him that it wasn't necessary, that the couch was comfortable enough as it was, and he had insisted that if she kept falling asleep in the living room, the least he could do was get her something proper to sleep on. Now she's grateful.

"Kate." At the sound of his voice, she looks up, to find him staring right at her, two spoons in one hand, and a container of ice cream in the other. He sets both down on the coffee table, next to her untouched soup, and plops himself down on the opposite end of the couch.

"Castle?" She doesn't know what else to say. How exactly do you begin a conversation like this?

"God, Kate. When you called me…" he trails off, looking straight at her, the merry shade of blue in his eyes replaced by something akin to the Atlantic during a storm. "I was so scared. And I'm sor-"

"Castle. Rick." She amends, noting the way he flinches as she says his name, "You need to stop saying sorry. None of this is your fault. None."

"Kate, I left you alone, and you needed me. How exactly is that not my fault?" He snaps at her. Almost immediately, regret fills his eyes, and he lowers his voice. "I want to be here for you, be the person you lean on for strength. And I failed you." He hangs his head, and she wants to comfort him, but now there's something in the pit of her stomach. Anger.

"Castle, damn it! I told you to go! Stop feeling sorry for yourself, because it is not, I repeat _not_, helping this situation! Do you honestly think that this is the first time this has happened to me? Well, it's not. You need to stop kicking yourself over this. It is counterproductive, and really not making me feel any better right now. So just shut up. Shut the fuck up if you have nothing else to say other than, 'I'm sorry,' because I don't want your damn apologies." With that, she stands up and walks out of the room. He can pout and feel sorry for himself, but she wants no part of it. She's going to run herself a bath, and if he wants to talk to her, he can come find her.

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter! It's not originally what I had planned, but I think it actually turned out better. If you have the time, please leave me a review. They're both a morale booster and a way for me to get some constructive feedback on my writing. Also, I got a Twitter! So now, if you'd like, you can follow my update schedule, and my rantings here: The_Mad_Shadow. Finally, the name of the ice cream shall be revealed in the NEXT chapter, not this one!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Everyone owes a special thank you to the one (!) person who follows me on Twitter, Brittney, for practically demanding that I post a new chapter soon. Also, between the follows (OVER TWO FREAKING HUNDRED) and the reviews for both 'The Call' and 'My Best Friend,' I was practically beside myself with giggles and happiness. THANK YOU! I still don't own Castle or any of its characters, but I live in hope...**

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She walks away, not sparing him another glance. He stands there, stunned. Still, he has the wherewithal to stare at the way her shorts show off her legs. And her butt. Her beautiful, gorgeous, magnificent butt. Okay, seriously, not what he should be focusing on right now. But he can't seem to help it. Even now, ten months later, he's still amazed that she chose him. That he actually knows what those legs and that butt look like when they're covered by nothing more than his hands, and Kate is giving _the _look. The one that begs him for everything he's willing to give.

He can barely feel his hand now, the ice cream clutched in his fingers long having sucked away the warmth his body can provide. Like the time he did the ice cube and salt trick, and nearly went to the ER, convinced that he had frostbite. He glances down at it. _Chocolate Therapy_ it proclaims, it's neon purple letters and disgustingly happy font teasing him. As though it were mocking him for assuming that if he just showed up with his cure-all food, everything would be fine and dandy. If this were another situation, like a difficult case, or the time that Alexis had suggested his and Kate's relationship was temporary, _Therapy _would be just what the doctor had ordered.

Except that this is _this_. This means big things. Things that they have spent months avoiding, his passing remark about the possibility of another kid notwithstanding. Obviously it's time to start wading into the deep end, instead of playing it safe, even if it means the risk of drowning.

So he follows her.

He follows her, and from the bathroom he can hear her clothes being shucked to the floor violently, followed by squeak of a knob. So Kate isn't taking a bath after all, electing instead to use his shower (he knows she secretly prefers it anyway). If he could, he would make it hers tomorrow, but she's too stubborn, and he's too timid to try. Correction: he _was_ too timid. No longer.

He's about to enter what he thinks of as _her_ domain, but he stops, listening to the sounds echoing out through the doorway. A small hiccup. And then a sob. She's crying in the shower, and he has no idea what to do. His first instinct is to rush in and hug her, hold her tight until her tears dry again. His second – honed from the years he has spent following her, observing her, and now dating her – is to slip in slowly, give her a chance to collect herself before he joins her.

The first things to go are his shoes, which he slips off as quietly as he can. He's lucky that they're loafers, and not the ridiculously formal things Paula made him wear to the press conference. The next thing is his shirt. He manages to undo all the buttons but one, and finds himself wrestling with it for a good minute. Fuck it. He rips it off, ignoring the sound of the plastic piece bouncing around behind him. He forgot to put on an undershirt before he dashed out of the hotel, so he practically jumps out of his pants, leaving him standing in his boxers, debating whether or not to give her another minute.

He decides against it, pulling them to his ankles and stepping out of them as he reaches the shower door. He can't hear anything but the rush of the shower now, but that may not mean anything. If anyone can cry silently, it's Kate Beckett, always trying to hide her pain, stonewall even.

Kate doesn't notice him, or, if she does, she choses to ignore him. That's okay. The shower is big enough that, if she wants to, she can take forever and a day and he can still get clean. Or dirty, depending on what the conditions call for. She's using the body wash that drives him crazy. He can smell the cherry rolling off of her, mixing in with the steam to torture his nose into sweet oblivion. Before she had let him in, before _them_, he had spent hours – no, scratch that, days – searching for that scent. He still doesn't actually know what it is (she wouldn't tell him, and always hid the labels), but he gets to be surrounded by it every day, and nothing else matters.

"Can you get my back?" She speaks so quietly, he misses it for the first second and a half, his brain only realizing the question when it reprocesses the information. He grabs the delicious smelling body wash and squirts a generous amount into his hand, watching the pink shimmer ooze out of the bottle. Then his hands are all over her, and he has to remind himself that this is supposed to be about her, not him. But damn is it hard to do when she keeps making those little hums of pleasure. He can feel her body releasing all of the tension that she's pent up over the last fourteen hours or so, and he opens his mouth to apologize again.

"I don't like it when we fight." She states, uncertainty clouding what he knows to be a rather definitive statement.

"I don't either." He draws slow, small circles on her back with his now not-so-frozen fingers. She shivers slightly, and, though he knows that she can't see it, he grins. He's glad to know that even when she feels like crap he can still get a rise out of her.

"I need you to stop apologizing."

"Okay." He wants to protest, to tell her all of the reasons why this is his fault, but he refrains. If this is what makes her happy, though he does not understand, he'll do it.

"I want… I want to talk about this. I do." She sounds more like she's trying to make herself believe it.

"Why don't we talk about it when we're not so wet?" He can't help it, a little bit of his arousal finds its way into the question. "You know that's not what I meant, Kate." He adds, knowing that her mind went to the same place his did.

She steps away from him, right underneath the hot stream, to wash off the remains of his soapy ministrations. Then she turns.

Kate is deliciously naked in front of him, and, for a moment, all his brain wants to do is take in this woman. She reaches out for him, linking her hands at the back of his neck to pull the two of them together. It's one of the things he loves about her; she's never shy about skin-on-skin contact, always able to express herself tactilely when everything else fails. His hands find their way to her hips, and he sees the laugh in her eyes when his thumb brushes a ticklish spot. Everything is hazy, and she stands on her toes, bringing her soft lips to his ear. He can hear her breathing, feel the way it changes to quick pants every time he so much as moves a fingertip.

"Castle, where's the ice cream?"

Crap.

**And you thought it was going to be smut...**

**If you can spare a moment to review, it would be much appreciated. I do try and respond personally to each non-guest (so poke me if you haven't received a response). If you'll notice, I changed the rating to T for language, though if you think it needs an M, feel free to holler.**

**Twitter: The_Mad_Shadow**


	6. Chapter 6

**I love, love, LOVE all of you who followed/favorited/reviewed this story. Each time I post a chapter, I try to make it better than the last for YOU. Sidebar: please tell me if I did, in fact, get the comic book stuff right. I'm a fan, but there's so much going on that I occasionally make mistakes. I don't own the rights to Castle, but if I did, I'd use the profits to cover tuition for myself and my brother.**

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She leaves him to clean up the mess. Who would have thought that a container of ice cream could melt so quickly? Somehow, the container ended up on its side, coverless and leaking onto the floor. Actually, he's cleaning up soup. Miraculously, none of it found its way to his clothes. He is so tempted to pretend as though it did and simply strut around in a towel, but there is a small possibility that Alexis will be home soon, and he doesn't want to scar her for life. Again. So he puts on his boxers and his rumpled pants and makes a couple of manic passes with the Swiffer, deciding that the sticky residue can be dealt with later.

Kate is waiting for him in the bedroom, propped up against the headboard on her side of the bed. She's folded in on herself – knees pulled to her chest, hair covering her eyes – and all he wants to do is give her a hug. Instead, he tosses his pants and other laundry into the hamper that he convinced her to share and roots around in his drawers, looking for his green lantern shirt.

"Looking for this?" She calls out to him from the bed.

If this were any other night, her voice would be teasing, egging him on. Tonight, it contains only a simple question. She is, indeed, wearing the shirt. It tends to switch sides week to week, depending on who does the laundry and claims it, and he's not all that surprised that she has it on. It's not a big loss for him anyway, even though it is his _favorite_ shirt, because it looks so much better on her (something that makes it _really_ his favorite shirt) than on him.

"I'll wear something else."

Whatever it is that's going on is something that needs to be talked about with at least some modicum of clothed-ness. She likes to joke that he can't keep his hands to himself even when she's fully dressed, and especially when she's not, but it's really her. He can't count the number of times they have almost been late to the precinct because he slept shirtless and she decided that they just _had_ to go one more round.

He pulls on the next shirt his hand touches and is just about to get onto his side, when Kate gives a small chuckle. Wordlessly, she points to his chest, and that's when he notices. He just so happens to be wearing the black and yellow symbol of the Sinestro Corps. Oops. He tries to give what he thinks is a bashful grin, and settles in, his pillows perfectly fluffed as always, his girl at his side. There's nothing but silence. He doesn't know where to start, and, so it seems, neither does she.

She cracks first.

"Eight days."

"What?"

"That's how late I was. Eight days."

"Wha—Kate—How can you not notice when you're _that_ late?" He doesn't mean for it to happen, but all of a sudden it sounds like he's accusing her. Which is completely the opposite of what he wants. He just doesn't understand, and he _wants_ to understand, and this is the first time that he's really going through this, and–

"I've always been a little all over the place, and then there was this stupid paperwork, and then I got… _distracted_." She says it quickly like she's defending herself, choosing to stare down at her feet instead of looking at him.

"I just—I'm not even sure what to say in this situation. I've never been here before." He admits. That seems to get her attention, and she gives him a puzzled look.

"Never?"

"No."

"Not even with…"

"No." He cuts her off before she can say his ex-wife's name. He doesn't want _her_ name uttered in _their_ bed. Kate calls him out for his little superstitions, but there's a reason he sticks to them. He doesn't want to have the curse of his other relationships thrust upon _them_.

"Oh."

"Yeah. I was at the Old Haunt one afternoon, jotting down some ideas for my next chapter and she just stormed over to me and yelled 'RICHARD FUCKING CASTLE, YOU GOT ME PREGNANT, YOU JACKASS' and left."

"So, naturally, you followed the screaming lady with a ring."

"Hey, I will have you know that I was young and idealistic."

"You're admitting that you're neither young nor idealistic now?"

"I admit nothing."

"So help me, Rick, if you have a ring tucked away somewhere that you are planning on bringing out, I will shoot you." He does, in fact, have a ring, and the thought of a proposal had crossed his mind, but he won't tell her that.

"Well, you're not pregnant, so you have nothing to worry about." The moment the comment leaves his mouth, he regrets it. The smile that had begun to form on Kate's mouth vanishes, and he catches a glimpse of pain in her eyes before she's back to hiding from him. He's an idiot.

"No, I'm not."

"Oh, Kate…"

"Rick, I'm tired, I'm hormonal, and I'm emotionally exhausted."

"Okay?" He's confused, unable to keep up with the yo-yo between her wanting to talk and her avoidance of the subject altogether. Then it clicks. Hormonal. _Was_. Shit, he's not just an idiot, he's an ass. An ass of possibly epic proportions. How could he not have noticed it? He's the expert on Kate Beckett. He literally _wrote the book_.

"Kate?"

"What?" She sighs, though he can hear her attempting to snap.

"Do you need me to get you anything? A heating pad? Maybe an Aleve?"

"No. I just want to go to sleep."

"You sure?"

"I'm fine, Castle." In her annoyance, she switches back into precinct-mode. These past couple of months, she's made more of a concentrated effort to call him 'Rick' at home and 'Castle' only at work. It's how he knows to differentiate between when he's allowed to touch her and when he isn't.

She untucks herself and lies down with her back to him, but he can clearly see her hands kneading her stomach in an attempt to make herself feel better. He says nothing, and makes his own preparations for a nap. It's the middle of the day, he remembers, though his body keeps telling him that it needs sleep after all the jetlag and mad-dash travel. He ignores his instincts, and sets the alarm for four. It's nearly two thirty now, so they'll still be able to sleep tonight.

He tries to resist the pull of dreamland for as long as possible, but Kate appears to already be out, and there's little point in staying awake if they're not going to talk. His eyelids slip closed and before he knows it, he's dead to the world.

She knows he's asleep when he starts to make his adorable snoring noises. Slowly, she rolls to watch him, arms crossed over her stomach to help with the pain. It's hardly enough to warrant ibuprofen, but it's still there, making her stomach churn. She can't believe that she actually mistook it for morning sickness. One little bout of nausea, and suddenly she's thinking about a baby. A baby that apparently doesn't exist.

Everything that she said to Rick was true. She had been nervous. She had felt faint. But she'd also been hopeful. Stupidly, disgustingly, sickeningly hopeful. And that's why she feels so upset. Right now, more than anything else, she wants to reach out and wake him and tell him about everything she felt, display her heart and let him examine it. But she's Kate Beckett, and she doesn't do that. Not for anyone, not even him.

Instead, she closes her eyes and slowly counts to twenty. She's asleep by the time she hits fifteen, one arm stretched out towards the man she loves.

**Yes, yes, I know. I still haven't answered the burning question of 'What in the heck did Kate mean in her mini-rant?'. I promise, I will get around to it, and soon. FUN FACT: I spent two days in prep for my summer job, and my shoulders, neck, upper back, and chest now all resemble a lobster. If you have the time, please leave me a review (or even PM me) and I'll respond.**

**Twitter: The_Mad_Shadow**


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